Heather Brager is a critically acclaimed juggler of calamity, an accomplished procrastinator, and shuffler of idioms. Her poetry and drawings can be found in various digital and print journals around the globe, and on the web. She currently resides in New England and prefers the precipice of where the Atlantic meets the sand to the official looking office where she spends most of her time.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

I could find her in a crowddeep eyes spilling dark and flashinglips too red, speaking muffled rhetoricand her skin, thesoft brown leather, oiledcoarse hair twirling down and brushing your handsas she looks backor forward and through

it's a flash and a flickershe's faint and has no light of her owndeem me silly, scared or souredin spiteful jealousyand still, I see her legspantyhose snagged just aboveher right kneestrut a little too shaky in herthree inch heelsI can smell herthe sound of her blousedamp with false prideher crime is manipulation

but you don't really trust meand she doesn't seehow could you bothblinded by your livesthe spiritual, covert operationsdrowning down and outand throughyour new galactic sea

and she doesn't know I existbut with her fuck-me jeansand your house on the lakeyou never told her of your false affectionsof your sad afflictionand still somehowshe wanted to be me

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

It can be heard in that distant soliloquysomewhere in the mind’s blinking eyemaybe the third or something vaporous and celestialas a quick catch in the smooth cream colored fabricsilky, woven with care by a real womanspeaking with her handsof these voices of reasonin duality’s treasonous, poisonous breathquestioning the wherewithal by challenging the comforting rasp this, possibility’s grand adventureand her damp words on your skincrawling the curves and arching with appetiteof unyielding presence

it can be heard, in the distant echo of requirementthis may be the time to arrivethis may be the destination blending firewith defenseless sprouting seedsthese assets visible before they are drawndissolving a doubting landscape with maturitychallenging you to grasp the filamentto watch it blossom and unravel

just moments before in a stark white museumechoing silence from ceiling to floor, sterile and barebut this breathtaking scene on the wallthis architecture of layered blueswith violent redscarlet tresses climbing off the canvasin smears just asking to be lickedand her father’s voice whispering rules into her left brainwithout hesitation, her arm reached outfingers splayed tips exposed, despite the alarmsshe expected the paint to be wet

months before in a lucid dreamhis beautiful arms bare, brown and smoothin the burning barren, desert sunancient tribal tattoosin raised patterns cut into his forearmscurved by the sepia tone landscape and a river only heardshe, without contemplationshe reached out with burning fingers to slide slowly across his wet skinand it mattered notwho was this man

years before in a child’s curious wanderspying a soft winged moth the size of her heartdeconstructing with awe and innocent wonderin powdered patterns of camouflage and a perfectly round eyestaring back and tauntinguntil her finger traced the imageand then leaving behind an iridescent dustit flew up and away with an impressionist's smiledrawn on her mind

she would whet her lipswith a human tonguerobotically transfixedwith empty regardher mechanical cellswould struggleto converttrying hard to containthe breaksin each linebut the force of accrualwould cause gears to seizein her momentarysystem-widemalfunction

her particles are slidingthrough the airenveloped in desiccated timeand her softened elementsrear their headswhile they mouth the words “does not compute”

the northern face is frozenwith sheer cliffs jutting out of the dirtskyward as they stab the darkened overhangof chemicals, vapors and grit.if she squints her eyes just rightin the rising light she is not aloneand rocks take form and move in paceas she climbs the miles of vacant trails.soundlessly a shimmering green snakeslowly shifts across her stepsa winding path that is hers alonebut shared by many counterparts.somewhere above her headshe will pause to drink chilled airevaporating quickly back to earthas she wonders if memory serves her welland if summertime will ever return.

there was a divergencewithin the easeit wrapped itself comfortably withindotting the page in a 12 point fontit told itself that every daywould start anewthat the dawn would open the doorsthat the sun would burn away the fogit told itself that it would no longerhave to chase its talethere were pagesthat had been writtenthe words projected vivid sceneson the ceiling above the bedinside its eyelids and withinthe compartments of its heartwere reels of its own actorsplaying the appropriate partsacting out simplicity and disparityin a perfectly imperfect loopthere was aching tendernessin the awkward silencesit threaded itself through the scenesweaving a story’s chapterswithout consecutive orderit jumbled in its assonanceand it stumbledthrough each sentenceit focused on time and spaceand what was neededto accurately portrayit hoped the absent pagesweren’t permanently delayed

the clock had stoppedand she tapped the glasswith her early morning fingersthe sun would riseand her internal timer was setto robotic repeat of talks and ticksthinking this is the pointwhile she sipped her coffeetoo hot to gulp but it was fridayand her week on week offwas the host of some simple focusshe wasn’t afraidof much of anything anymoreand started her carwith a cold keythe destinations she had outlinedin her five year planhad dropped off the marginsthe reasons she had come and gonewere all that she had leftto justify the new shoesit was time who knewshe was the only one in the roomand who had any reasonto expect an outcome

complex wordsand conjugated verbsheard from behind worn coversextracted from shabbydog-eared pageshis tired socks on the coffee tablethreadbare fatiguesfilled with holesand the stains on his hands

suspended in timeand trapped by ranksspouting Vonnegut aloudin his amber momentviewing commerce throughblue bucolic eyesdebating separations of church and statewithout judgment of colorbut textures and viewscarving mythology from originsof the culturally innateinterpreting Hemingway, CampbellCamus and Twain

reflecting the intellectof a girl with her hairwrapping her fingersconsumed by thoughtson the philosophy of artthe efforts and strife of validity in a fightof the surmounted generationdeveloping her foundationin his depictionof existential life

they motioned like machinesrambled like killer instinctfloated like swollen seeds in a dog-day breezeimplanted the soil with their hasty impertinenceand then washed their handswith vestal tonguesand manufactured phosphates

and yet they breathethe ants and vermin, birds and humanscold and wet living thingsconvulse beneath the facadesoar above the fertile landbarely scratching the surfacesunaware, that which devoured them wholehas left them inspired and exposed

they sit across the tableas you rearrange your napkin and your bent forkwith cold hands and your bound lifeyou are swallowing and awarewith the rise and the fall of your covered breastyou count the distance from here to therebuffered by the hum of voices around youdroning the things you used to bemoanthey sit across the table wonderingwhy you’ve gone and where you’ve beenand why you are chewingwith your mouth openwhile damp eyes draw patternsof moments in time on the wall behindthat is covered with a child’s fingerprints

from the sidewalk, her hair shines justice in the sunlight off buildings scraping the sky

eyes breathe what cannot be seen through the shells rambling zombie-like

warping in and out of time like dreams captured in shared glasses of red wine

What is it that you actually need?

moping aroundwith your little black cloudtethered to my half empty cupshuffling along cynicallymind fucking meleaning up top consideringyour arms out and leapingwatching the edge from belowmouth wide from the street

from the air, her views are softened by the dewy glow of early next year’s emulsion

judgment suspended, deeply pillowed with no concern until awakened by needing hands

where is this place, this pulsing controlled environment smelling of late morning breakfast

there were evaluationsoutside of boundaries and abrupt severancesof former arrangementscoupled with sordid calculationsof the future disguised as the presentplaying the part of the nowwrapped in deceiving guise

and his was a life lead inside of his own headspurring affections through supple distractionsof high magic and unworldly meditationswith the stars and the moonin perfect configurationto balance all of the power in the universeon her hot little fingertips

and time rolls and ticks and the sun rises and setswhile she impatiently waits for clarityto grip her neck tightlyand he occasionally removesthe pictures from his safeto examine her heart on the pagethat she extended far beyondher years and his comfort

she is unexpectedly nearsultry by his lubricious stareas she pulls on her stockingswith corporeal measurean abrupt seam scaling calves and thighsin faintly varying commandas her soles slide into four inch heelssmooth with a delicate strap

she will emerge unrestrainedwith her locks unfastenedand his deep jagged glancefeeding her subtle swayconsumed by the risk of curvaturesheer black lace visible only by sensein fluid drifts she will drownin his molten omnipresence

these pages are rectangular, colorless and sharp like the edges of the box in which they are hidden. this place where the yielding flesh of a woman is reserved and protected from the acrimony of a bitter world. and through my beveled glass the view is obstructed and time is complicated happenstance. many stolen years are misplaced and labeled as hygienic experience and dropped to the floor as lessons learned.

the link to you is glaring with putrid light and i force myself to turn away from this want, for you don’t owe me one thing. these debts are my own from some territory in pasts overlapped where the sky was a different shade of quiet gray. so we begin again with the cyclical movement that reflects the seasons, knowing that offspring will hatch and sprouts will return from underneath the dirty ice. we wake and wash and stretch and breathe with the knowledge that the sun often rises to pay us back what we have earned.

the feminine is notthe shape and arch of a toned physiquenor the flex of muscled arms and petite belly in taut skinher beauty is notthe proposal of available sexor the pheromone gistand embodiment of eager youth

will you even know this womanstanding alone under the endless skyyou swear she is the vision from a civilization pastyou wish she’d follow time with the drums in your chestyou know she is not fallingin time with your rhythm

she's been here beforedespite refusal to recurshe wants nothing morebut for youto wrap her in the foldsof your diagnostic mindstrike the pulses agonizing from your fingertipstie her securelywith the fibers of your measuredmetamorphosis

she longs to coax your heartfree of your ribcageif you would just set it in her lapshe'd want nothing more from you

she could be an artichokea complicated vegetablewith a spongy heartprotected and coveredwithin manyperplexing layersof greenish walls

she could be a manuscripton a handcraftedantique mantlea book of wordsspilling randomscraps of social discrepanciesbut shrouded by tenderand unexplained sentiment

she could be a cavalcadeof haphazard depositsnot-so monochromaticsedimentary residueshe could be boththe royal queenand the rusty skeleton keytucked snuggly withina velvet-lined boxlocked deep insidethe walls of afaraway kingdom

she could quietly marvelat the simplicity of careless wonderand the possibility of true loveand the absurdity of the mating ritualsof colorful birds in migration

but if she could just bean artichokeon a simple white platesteamed to perfectionwith some melted butter on top

if softness was a reasonthe pressure of sighswrists angled slightlychin tilted a degree of beliefif softness was a reasonand the dawn cast patternsthrough dusty blindshis arms withdrawn slightlymurmuring water drippinga variance across her backif softness was a reasonand spring filtered frosther feet would lingerwith naked discretionand keep this close